


Complicit

by yellowcottondresses



Category: Nashville (TV)
Genre: Coda, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 15:08:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3900784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowcottondresses/pseuds/yellowcottondresses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She'll never be Jade. She'll never throw him away. Everything she has is his. Coda to 3x21, "Is The Better Part Over".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Complicit

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: Hopefully my point is clear by the end of this, but if it’s not, I don’t ship or support what happened between Layla and Jeff and hope she comes around and dumps him by the end of the season. The last thing that girl needs is to be dragged through more emotional devastation by another person who uses and abuses her trust so selfishly. 
> 
> On that note... just got the news of renewal. SEASON 4 IS A GO!!!
> 
> I don’t own Nashville.

I.

It takes one, two, three minutes, and a zipper and another zipper and shoelaces and one bra strap being slipped off smooth skin tossed aside and then he’s got her pinned underneath him, teeth at her throat and her small waist gripped between his knees. Her arms fly over her head as she arches into him, and he grabs hold of her wrists, pressing her body to the mattress. 

His shadow falls over her on the still-made bed, an eclipse blocking out the sun. If he lay directly on top of her, every part of him would cover every part of her, overtaking her like a cage of blood and bone and body. 

He lets go of her wrists and his hands move downward, fingers playing across her like an instrument. He splays one wide-open against her chest, sealing the wide length of it over her heart like he’s trying to capture a rogue beat in his palm. Then he moves to her ribs, pressing against either side of her body so she had to gasp harder, louder, fight to get air in her lungs. He maps the shape of ribs under skin that feels so easy to break, fitting his fingers into the grooves between the bones, riding every wave and shudder as she struggles to breathe in. 

When he pushes inside her he bites into her shoulder, leaving a circle of teeth marks where he’d been like a brand. Then bites down a little harder as she tugs on his hair, groaning and opening and writhing and gasping into his ear. He pushes and pushes and shudders, his mouth on her neck, her pulse on his lips. The electric thud of her whole life, on the tip of his tongue. 

He has her. All of her. 

 

 

II.

He cleans himself off in the bathroom, getting rid of the condom and thinking about that tweet. He hadn’t exactly lied to Layla. Just let her believe what she thought was true and honestly, she did have the photo pulled up in Twitter already. All she had to do was click the button. 

And who’s to say she didn’t?

She said she couldn’t do this without him, and she was right. She never could. Because before him, who was she? 

A nobody. A dying star. A suicidal walking punchline. She was everybody’s water-cooler joke. 

And now look where she is. 

He made her into that. Every step of the way. From getting her signed to Highway 65, to getting her on Jade’s tour, to convincing her that she ought to stay in Nashville at all after everything with Will. 

Was there honestly anyone else who would have taken that chance on Layla Grant? Anyone but him?

Would anybody else have looked at that girl at Winterville Nashfest and seen the amazing potential? Would anyone else have pushed so hard for her to sign with a label that wasn’t exactly booming with success stories, but would take a chance and believe in her the way he did? 

Would anyone else have sat beside her hospital bed that night, remembering every detail of the jam tent and watching her breathe? Would they have watched the monitors she was hooked up to and counted every time they beeped, gaining reassurance from the steadiness of every inhale and exhale, that proof of life and fight? Would they have stayed the whole night, even if they couldn’t explain why, even to themselves?

He saw that jam tent girl. He saw the girl beneath the reality show and the internet memes and the late night talk show skits. He had reached out to her and picked her up off the ground, and put her back together again. 

He was the only person who had never let her go. He wouldn’t. And who the hell is she, without him? 

And so of course, it makes sense that he needs a little…insurance policy. Just to make sure shit doesn’t go sideways, because it inevitably does. This is a business, after all. Even if Layla can’t understand it yet, that contract is protecting the both of them.

He cups his palms, filling them with water and taking a long gulp. When he reaches for a towel next to the sink, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His reflection is red-faced, hair messy, chest lined with the scratch marks from her nails. 

He smiles.

She’ll never be Jade. 

_She’s mine._

 

 

III.

She’s still on top of the covers when he comes out of the bathroom, grabbing his boxers off the floor and slipping them back on. When she sees him, she reaches for her discarded bra and underwear, puddled on the floor with the rest of her clothes. But before she can dress herself, he sits down on the rumpled covers beside her, tugging her back towards him. 

She seems surprised, but leans back obligingly, settling against his chest. Her skin is still warm, and he inches closer to her so the space between them closes. He kisses the side of her head, lips pressed to her sweaty,  
rumpled hair. 

He doesn’t cuddle. Whenever they’re finished, it’s usually with a quick kiss, or lying under the covers when they’re both cleaned up and half-dressed. He doesn’t pull her in like this, holding her bare body and not trying to push for something else. This is new – just wanting her close, arms locked around her while he ribbons their fingers together, a padlock of limbs intertwined. 

She’s quiet, her head heavy on his shoulder. For a moment he wonders if she’s fallen asleep, when she murmurs into his collarbone, the words damp on his skin as she breathes them out. 

“How far do you think we could go?” she says, her voice drowsy. 

He tugs at her hair gently, tangled in his fingers. “We could go all the way. Long as you play your cards right.”

She glances up at him. Her make-up is smeared down her cheeks and under her eyes. She looks like a mix between a zombie and a drunk raccoon. 

“And of course that means listening to you every step of the way.” Her voice is decidedly less dreamy now. 

He grins. “Hey, you’ll get better instincts. Someday.”

He squeezes her hand and he pulls her in tightly, molding her to his side. 

“Stick with me. You’re young. You’ll figure out how the game’s played.” He smirks down at her, shaking his head. “Though it might take a while.”

She smacks him in the stomach, making him groan. 

“Hey!” She pulls away from him, frowning. “You don’t get to call me stupid.”

“I didn’t call you stupid,” he says. “I called you young.”

“You mean naïve.”

“I mean inexperienced.” 

“Same thing.”

“Layla. Come on.” He reaches out and takes her arms. She pulls away at first, still frowning and mad, but he smiles and sees her resolve weaken when he puts his hands over hers. “That’s something we can change.”

He leans closer, enough to brush her forehead with his own. Her image blurs in front of him, seeing her this close up.

“And don’t forget,” he tells her, voice husky, “I also said you were amazing.” 

Her skin is still pink from exertion, but he can tell she’s flushing red and proud. He digs his fingers into her waist, fingers imprinting into the sweaty skin, rocking their hips together. 

“And taken care of,” he says, and puts his mouth to the shell of her ear. “Hmm? Because you know I’m going to.” 

She pulls away from him, enough to where she can tilt her head up and look him in the eyes. Her hair is plastered around her head like a nest, eyes wide and watery and ringed with black. She looks like something newly hatched, or something trying to crawl its way out of a deep, dark tunnel that looked like it didn’t have an end.

He sees the look on her face, and wants to save it forever, call it to mind at certain moments. Like when she’s being a pain in the ass.

(Especially when she’s being a pain in the ass.)

Because he’s seen that look before. Wide eyes, gaze turned down, mouth tilted into a little half-smile like she can’t believe what she just found. He saw it the night she climbed into his cab, and they both knew what would happen before either one of them had to say it out loud. When she got the offer from Highway 65. And when she leaned across the bar and missed his mouth for a kiss. Because he pulled away, head tilted in a question he wasn’t asking, and she gave him this look like she couldn’t believe he would still even have to wonder.

She trusts him.

The thrill of it warms every inch of him, making his stomach twist. His hand tightens over hers, and he reaches across her with the other to hook one of her legs over his waist, running his fingers down her skin. It makes her shiver, and she turns her face into his chest, huffing these warm little breaths into the space where his heart is supposed to be. 

She’s melting into him and he wants her to, so he digs his nails harder into her leg, and the whimper she lets out turns him on so fucking much. It makes him want to hold her against the mattress and make her entire body hum like a tuning fork, so he can feel the delicious vibration through her inside himself. Like the echo of music that reverberates through your bones like a pulse, long after the last note is played. 

“I’ll be there, babe,” he murmurs. “Cause I know the real you.”

He presses harder into the naked skin, and she settles in his arms, slick and warm. They’re glued together with sweat and promises, their bodies making suctiony sounds from being clung together. Like it’s going to take a lot more than just climbing out of this bed to make him stop feeling every move she makes inside and out. 

He’s going to take her all the way to the top. 

Forget Jade. She’s nothing, compared to this. She can keep the smoke and mirrors, the years he poured into her to get her to where she is now. Everything he wasted on her, his time and his energy and his heart, and that engagement ring. Her multi-billion dollar industry, the one HE steered her toward. The one that made Jade St. John, Jade St. John. 

She’s nothing. A diva and a liar and a world-class user. And she can take everything he made her and go fuck herself with it. 

He’ll take the girl in this bed, the one whose every breath and heartbeat he can feel. The girl who trusts him to never lead her wrong. 

The one who is never throwing him away. 

How could she, after this? 

He cups her chin and tilts her head up to his, looking her in the eye. It puts her head at an unnatural angle, and she pulls away from him a little to crane her neck more comfortably. But then he tilts it back to where it was and leans in, closing his mouth over hers.

“I have you,” he says, as he seals their deal once more. “I will always have you.”


End file.
